


Just A Cold

by peachgrove



Series: The Epilepsy Diaries [9]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Angst, Epilepsy, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Neurological Disorders, Protectiveness, Seizures, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:54:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24446917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachgrove/pseuds/peachgrove
Summary: “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Armie says as he leans away with a hand on the boy’s chest. “Easy there, partner. I’m not trying to get sick.”Timmy crosses his arms and scrunches his freckled nose that has grown bright red with irritation. “I’m not sick. It’s just a cold,” he says with a frown.orTimmy's cold ends up actually being the flu, and the effects are much more severe given his condition. Armie's left in a frenzy.
Relationships: Timothée Chalamet/Armie Hammer
Series: The Epilepsy Diaries [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1723651
Comments: 18
Kudos: 123





	Just A Cold

“I’m back,” Armie calls as he steps into the apartment.

“Yay,” comes Timmy's unenthusiastic call back. Armie would be offended if it weren’t for the fact that Timmy’s voice sounds muffled and congested, evidence of the sickness the boy is experiencing.

Armie smiles to himself as he ventures further into the apartment until he’s met with the sight of Timmy in the living room. The boy looks a mess; hair tousled, baggy clothes that most definitely belong to Armie, and paint that has somehow covered his skin from head to toe. Yet, despite all of this chaos, Timmy seems solely concerned with the canvas in front of him, not batting an eye at the destruction his artistry has caused.

When Timmy looks up at Armie, he smiles weakly, brushing a curl from his forehead and smearing dark blue paint on his skin in the process. It’s quite adorable that he doesn’t notice, so Armie doesn’t say anything about it.

“Here’s your paint, my lord,” Armie says as he brings the plastic bag over to Timmy. 

If someone were to hold a gun to Armie’s head and ask him what each thing was for, he would be a dead man. He had to keep Timmy on the line the entire time he was in the shop, partially because he didn’t know what he was doing and partially because Timmy is picky about the materials he wants.

“Thank you,” Timmy says with relief as he stands to take the bag from Armie. He leans in for a kiss as he says, “I would’ve gone myself if I had time to--”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Armie says as he leans away with a hand on the boy’s chest. “Easy there, partner. I’m not trying to get sick.”

Timmy crosses his arms and scrunches his freckled nose that has grown bright red with irritation. “I’m not sick. It’s just a cold,” he says with a frown.

Armie cups the boy’s face in both hands, kissing his warm cheek slowly and gently. He doesn’t miss the way Timmy leans into his touch, most likely exhausted but far too stubborn to admit. When he pulls away, he says, “I hate to break it to you, babe, but having a cold technically means that you're sick.”

“You’re mean,” Timmy mumbles with a pout. He looks down and picks at the paint-stained sleeves of Armie’s old hoodie. 

Armie chuckles. “Oh, hush. I just went out in twenty degree weather and got you all this paint. You don’t get to be all pouty,” he jokes, loving the way Timmy flinches when he pokes his fingers into the boy’s sides.

Timmy goes to say something back, but mucus catches in his throat and suddenly he’s having a coughing fit. The hacks are ripped from his lungs brutally, and it has the boy leaning over in an effort to control them. His wheezing breaths concern Armie and reminds the older of the sounds Timmy makes following a seizure.

“Get it out,” Armie says as he pats Timmy’s back.

After a few more coughs and choking on botched deep breaths, Timmy is finally able to control his breathing, though the whole ordeal has left him with watery, red-rimmed eyes.

“Jesus,” Timmy hisses as he wipes the tears away.

Armie frowns and reaches up to nonchalantly rest the back of his hand on Timmy’s forehead. His skin is seering to the touch, showing sure signs of a high fever. Now, Armie’s no expert, but he’s pretty sure fevers aren’t typical of simple colds by any means. At least not to the extent that he’s feeling on Timmy right now.

“You’re burning up, Tim. Maybe you should go lay down for the night,” Armie suggests, already knowing the answer his difficult boyfriend is going to give.

“No, no. Absolutely not,” Timmy says as he sits back on his stool in front of his painting just to prove his point. “No, this commission needs to be done and sent out by Tuesday of next week. I don’t have time to stop this early tonight. I want it to be finished by Sunday.”

Armie sighs and steps around the boy, coming up behind him and wrapping his arms around his slim shoulders. He tucks his face into Timmy’s neck, just to annoy him more. “It’s only Friday, though.”

“Yes, but I still have a lot to do,” Timmy answers as he breaks the plastic seal on one of the new paint tubes Armie just bought.

Armie looks up at the painting then. He had seen Timmy’s sketch earlier, but it was no match for the vibrant colors that Timmy has now added. The canvas displays an abstract painting of a family; a father, a mother, and two daughters. All of their features and expressions are sharp and streaky, the entire painting made with primary colors. It’s interesting for Armie to see Timmy’s visions come to life, being that he’s watched the boy complete the commission from the beginning.

“Looks like it’s almost done to me,” Armie comments with a grin but genuinely doesn’t see what more Timmy could add that would make this painting better; it’s already perfect.

“You know nothing about art,” Timmy giggles as he squirts a small amount of paint on his palette.

“You’re not wrong,” Armie agrees as he moves away from Timmy to instead sit on the couch right beside him. 

For the next hour or so, Armie watches TV and plays on his phone mindlessly while his extremely talented boyfriend creates something from his imagination alone. The boy has to stop to sneeze almost the whole time as well, smearing paint on his nose and hands again without noticing. 

It’s endearing to watch, but also concerns Armie when he has to hand Timmy a tissue every five seconds. He doesn’t complain one second, though, because he knows that if Timmy thought that he was inconveniencing Armie in any way, he would refuse his help completely. And that’s the last thing Timmy needs to be doing right now.

Armie lets Timmy’s ego get the best of him for about another ten minutes before he finally decides to draw the line. When he looks up and sees Timmy’s head bobbing with sleepiness, he calls it quits.

“Alright, let’s get you to bed,” Armie says as he turns the TV off.

Timmy’s head immediately jerks up at the commotion, his eyes frantically scanning the painting in front of him. Unsurprisingly, his expression shows that he’s unsatisfied with the progress he’s made tonight, but then again, when is Timmy ever satisfied with himself?

“No, I’m almost done. I promise,” Timmy says as he brushes the hair off his face again.

“Baby, you’re falling asleep sitting up,” Armie chuckles, thought there’s still a wrinkle between his brows from worry.

“I wasn’t, I wasn’t,” Timmy denies as he dips his brush in more paint.

Armie reaches up to grip Timmy’s thigh from where he’s sitting on the couch. It’s clothed with large sweatpants that fall around his hips and can only be held up by the boy tightening the drawstring as much as he can. It’s typical for Timmy to want to be swimming in his clothes when he’s sick because he gets so darn cold, so him stealing Armie’s wardrobe is not a new feat.

“Timmy…” Armie chastises. “Come on, just throw in the towel. You’ll have plenty of time to finish it tomorrow and Sunday.”

Timmy wipes his nose on his sleeve before he meets Armie’s eye and croaks out, “Just five more minutes.”

Armie sighs.

And he has to give in. He has to. Because even debating this topic just a second more would end in nothing but an argument and Timmy staying up all night just to prove a point. And Armie just can’t deny the look on Timmy’s poor, sickly face. So he caves.

“Fine, but nothing more!” he emphasizes, but Timmy really only listens to his agreement.

So Timmy returns to painting.

Armie would have to say that it wasn’t even a minute later before he glances up to check on Timmy once again and finds that the boy’s eyes are blinking slowly and heavily before they open really wide again in an effort to shake the sleep away. 

Timmy’s head dips once, twice, three times before Armie stops him all over again, anxious about the brush in Timmy’s hand that could most definitely ruin his entire painting if sleep were to truly overcome him.

“Aaand, you’re done,” Armie says as he grabs the brush from between his lover’s fingers. He places it in the cloudy water that’s sitting on the end table next to the couch as he confirms, “I think you’ve had quite enough. That’s it.”

Armie’s surprised when Timmy doesn’t protest this time, instead just rubbing his eyes and whispering, “Okay,” through what sounds like a sore throat.

They shower together in silence. There’s no noise between them apart from Timmy’s occasional sneeze or cough and his small confession of, “The water feels good on my back. All my bones hurt.” So Armie lets him stand under the spray for a few minutes as the younger tucks his face into his collarbone, kissing up the side of his throat.

Armie only smiles to himself as he watches Timmy make a beeline for Armie’s dresser instead of his own when they get out of the shower. The question of, “Can I wear some of your clothes?” goes unspoken because, even if Timmy were to ask, Armie would undoubtedly say yes anyway.

Timmy lazily dries his curls before getting under the covers. Armie’s nightly routine goes on a bit longer than his boyfriend’s, so it comes as no shock when he suddenly hears the boy whine for him while he’s pissing.

“Armie?”

Armie finishes up before tucking himself back into his underwear. “Timmy?” he mocks.

After washing his hands and brushing his teeth for the night, Armie steps out into their bedroom and can just barely make out the small sliver of Timmy’s head that is poking out of the covers. He’s entirely bundled up. But when he hears Armie enter the room, he peeks his head out from the blanket.

“Com’ere,” Timmy mumbles. He then reaches his arms out and makes grabby hands for Armie. “I’m cold,” he complains.

Armie laughs as he gets under the covers himself. “When are you not cold?” he says, thinking back to the first time Timmy had made a fuss about being slightly chilly. It was on one of their first dates. Armie had mindlessly given the boy his coat, but only after he teased him about how it was almost sixty degrees outside.

“Colder than normal,” Timmy mutters as he turns over so that Armie can spoon him from behind. Armie goes willingly, burying his nose in Timmy’s damp curls that smell of shampoo and slipping his hand up the hem of Timmy’s sweatshirt (which is actually his sweatshirt) and pressing his palm to the boy’s tummy.

Every inch of Timmy’s skin is hot to the touch, yet now, as Armie holds him, he shivers endlessly. Armie knows that this is no typical cold, and that it must be the flu, but he doesn’t mention this to Timmy. He doesn’t want the boy to know that he might in fact feel even worse tomorrow if it is the flu, and he likely won’t be able to finish his painting like he wanted.

“Do you want me to turn the furnace on?” Armie asks against the back of Timmy’s neck.

He feels Timmy shake his head and sniffle, likely trying to suppress a sneeze. “Nah, you’ll get too hot. I’ll be okay.”

“I don’t mind,” Armie promises.

Timmy coughs, then gasps, then coughs some more. “I’m okay,” he finally chokes out.

Armie reluctantly lets it go.

As they fall asleep, Armie can hear the way Timmy’s breathing through his mouth instead his nose being that it’s insanely clogged with mucus. This solution isn’t much better since the mucus in his lungs is making him wheeze, but at least he’s more relaxed in his sleep. 

Timmy’s comfort is all Armie can think about as he finally drifts off as well.

\--

When Armie wakes up early the next morning, he doesn’t know why. It’s extremely early, the sun just barely coming over the horizon and their bedroom still dim with light. He turns over and sees that Timmy hasn’t moved at all in the night, still in the same position he fell asleep in, even without Armie spooning him.

After realizing that absolutely nothing in the room has moved, not even his boyfriend, Armie’s still left wondering what exactly jerked him from his sleep.

And then the coughing.

Brutal, deep coughs leave Timmy’s chest, so congested that it sounds like a whip snapping. He wheezes between these hacks and it only seems to make him cough more. The force of the blows make Timmy’s body rock next to Armie, but even after all this, the boy still doesn’t wake up.

Armie sits straight up then with a frown on his face. Those coughs are far too loud and harsh for Timmy to sleep right through them. There must be something wrong.

When Armie places his hand on Timmy’s shoulder to give him a little shake in the hopes of waking him up, he’s horrified at what he sees when he peeks over Timmy’s body.

There, on the pillow right next to Timmy’s face, is a large pool of blood. The thick, red substance has seeped into the pillow case, staining the fabric and surely the cushion inside. Upon further inspection, Armie can determine that the blood is in fact running, or, more truthfully, gushing from Timmy’s flush nose. It’s destroyed everything around it, smearing all over Timmy’s cheeks, chin, lips.

And Timmy, the poor thing, sleeps right through it.

“Shit,” Armie hisses as he throws the covers back and rounds the other side of the bed to crouch in front of Timmy.

The boy just lies there, out fucking cold, having no idea that blood is caked all over his face. His breaths rasp heavily through his parted, cracked lips, and Armie can see through the small opening that the blood has seeped into his mouth as well, lining the gums of his teeth.

Though he himself is shitting his pants, Armie calmly reaches up to comb a hand through Timmy’s matted curls so as to not startle him. “Timmy?”

This movement doesn’t even make Timmy stir. He continues to lay there motionless, not acknowledging the touch in any way.

“Tim, honey,” Armie persists, now brushing a hand down the side of the boy’s face, not caring about the blood that gets on his fingers. His thumb runs over Timmy’s eyebrow gently in an effort to break him from his slumber. “You gotta wake up.”

After giving his shoulder another soft budge, Timmy finally shifts. He immediately whimpers pitifully, likely feeling the effects the sickness has caused on his body throughout the night all at once.

“Hey,” Armie whispers, now tucking a curl behind the younger’s ear. “Wake up, Timmy. Come on.”

Timmy’s eyes slowly crack open and instantly shut again, blinded by the brightness of the room despite the fact that it’s hardly past 7 am. His tongue licks his lips and laps on the inside of his mouth, likely detecting the metallic taste of blood. “Armie?” he whines.

“I’m right here,” Armie assures. “Sit up for me.” With that, he carefully guides Timmy into a sitting position, the boy’s back resting against the headboard.

Unfortunately, this position change doesn’t do much but make everything worse. Like, way worse. Armie watches with wide eyes as the blood starts pouring out of Timmy’s nose faster. It runs down his face like water, and Timmy, disoriented from being woken from a dead sleep, naively tries to tilt his head back in an effort to keep it from dripping onto his clothes any more than it already has.

“No, no. Forward,” Armie gently directs. “Tilt your head forward, baby.”

Armie grabs a handful of tissues from the box on Timmy’s nightstand and holds it under the boy’s nose to catch the droplets of blood that fall. Timmy finally processes what Armie says and leans his head forward, breath quickening as he watches the tissues soak with blood.

“Calm down, calm down,” Armie whispers as he rubs Timmy’s thigh.

Timmy swallows harshly and grips Armie’s wrist that’s holding the tissues to his nose. He whines at the taste. “Armie…”

“Shhh, it’s alright. Just a nosebleed,” Armie promises from where he’s still crouched next to the bed.

“It’s… But, it’s--”

“You’re fine, angel. I promise,” Armie says. 

Now, Armie knows that Timmy is perfectly capable of holding a tissue up to his bleeding nose, but when he’s riddled with such confusion due to what is most likely the flu, he feels it’s necessary. Not to mention Timmy’s tendency to feel woozy when he sees blood, which is exactly what happens.

After a few seconds, Armie goes to pull the tissue away and with it comes a large blood clot. Timmy gasps out loud at the sight. When Armie sees Timmy’s green eyes start rolling in his head and his body start leaning forward, he knows exactly what’s happening.

“Hey, no,” Armie says as he sits Timmy back up. “Don’t pass out on me, Tim.”

Timmy groans as he tries to keep his consciousness, his head lolling side to side. It isn’t that Timmy has a problem with blood in general. It’s just that he has a problem if that blood is coming from himself, especially in big heaps like this. 

“Come on, Timmy. Here, look at me. Don’t look at it,” Armie says as he tries to turn Timmy’s head.

Timmy looks at him lethargically and grips his wrist even harder. It’s like he’s holding onto Armie as if the man is the only thing keeping him awake.

“That’s it,” Armie encourages as he watches the color come back to Timmy’s face. “You’re okay.”

Timmy coughs a few times then, still harsh and painful sounding. And since Armie’s hand is directly in front of his mouth, his arm consequently gets covered in Timmy’s saliva. Armie doesn’t flinch, knowing Timmy isn’t meaning to, but Timmy’s face lights up bright red.

“Sorry,” Timmy croaks.

“Shhh,” Armie dismisses him.

Armie has suffered enough bloody noses in football to know that once the blood clot comes out, the bleeding slows down significantly. And slow down it did. After only a few more minutes of holding the tissue up to Timmy’s nose, it practically stops, and Armie feels comfortable letting Timmy handle it on his own.

“Okay, hold this,” Armie says as he brings one of Timmy’s arms to the tissue with his free hand. “I’m gonna go get a wet cloth so we can clean all of the blood off your face.”

“Okay,” comes Timmy’s hoarse answer. God, he sounds awful, and so, so sickly.

Armie hurriedly gets up and wets a washcloth in the sink before ringing it out. Once he’s back and crouching next to Timmy again, he can see that the bleeding has stopped completely, and Timmy is now dabbing the tissue to his nose and pulling it away with no blood. Armi breathes a sigh of relief.

“Here, baby,” Armie calls to get Timmy’s attention. 

He begins ridding Timmy’s cheeks, mouth, chin, and even one of his ears of the dark, dried blood. Timmy breathes heavily through his mouth the whole time, occasionally choking on a cough, but thankfully he doesn’t sneeze. That would probably start the bloody nose all over again.

Timmy licks his lips a few times before rasping, “Armie?”

“Yes?”

“Can I...Can I take a nap?”

Armie’s heart hurts from the hesitance in his tone. The poor boy feels so terrible that he wants a nap when he quite literally just woke up. He likely has no idea what time it is. Has no idea that it’s early in the morning and he can just go right back to sleep.

Armie smiles at Timmy sadly and pushes his sweaty curls away from his forehead. This was just his way of secretly feeling Timmy’s head for a fever again. It’s warmer than it was yesterday.

“Yeah, of course,” Armie guarantees. “You’ll have to sleep on the couch though because I have to wash the sheets.” 

Realistically, Armie knows that the crisp, white sheets are far too damaged to salvage at this point, so what he’ll really be doing is throwing them away. But Timmy doesn’t need to know that. Because he knows Timmy, and he knows he’ll beat himself up for it.

Timmy just nods back at Armie and reaches for him when he goes to get on his feet.

Armie pulls the boy to his feet and catches him when he stumbles a bit from the dizziness his headache has caused. After tucking him under his arm, he shuffles the two of them into the living room and lays Timmy on the couch with caution. He knows the flu is kicking Timmy’s ass and causing every muscle of his to ache.

Armie buries Timmy under several layers of blankets on the couch, trying to make it at least half as comfortable as their bed.

“Thank you,” Timmy says as he snuggles in.

His gratefulness for such a simple task as putting a blanket over him makes Armie laugh. “No problem, silly.”

“Will you nap with me?” Timmy asks as he grabs Armie’s hand before he can walk away.

“Hmm,” Armie considers. “Let me change the sheets first and then I’ll come back.”

Timmy pouts but inevitably lets his hand go.

When Armie is done cleaning up the massacre from Timmy’s bloody nose, he goes back into the living room to find the boy fast asleep again. Figuring that he won’t know whether Armie lays with him or not, the older decides to instead do things around the apartment, knowing he won’t be able to go back to sleep so easily even if he tried.

\--

A couple of hours later around lunch time, Armie decides that he should probably go to the store to get a few things for Timmy. There’s not much they can do for the flu at this point; Timmy’s been having symptoms for too long to get Tamiflu or anything. If they were to go to the doctor, they would just tell Timmy to drink a lot of water and get some rest. Armie figures the least he can do is get a couple of things to make this go a lot smoother for Timmy.

Armie slips into some clothes and tucks his unruly hair under a hat before leaving. He stops by the couch to check on Timmy, finding that he hasn’t moved an inch. The boy sleeps with his mouth wide open, his face fevered and red, and a layer of sweat covering his skin. And yet, he’s still so beautiful.

Armie places a kiss on his forehead before tiptoeing over to the door to put on his shoes and get his keys. He just about jumps out of his skin when he hears shuffling and a quiet voice call his name.

“Armie?” Timmy asks from two feet away, and when Armie looks up, he sees that the boy has brought the blanket with him, wrapping it around his shoulders and letting his sleepy face and wild curls stick out. “Where ya goin’?”

“Just going to the store to get a few things for you,” Armie explains as he continues to tie his shoe.

“Oh,” Timmy mumbles as he watches him. “You didn’t say goodbye.”

Armie frowns and looks over at the boy. “I thought you were asleep.”

Timmy shakes his head. His eyes look so heavy with exhaustion, Armie fears he’ll pass out any second now. “I was...I was asleep. But I heard you.”

“Oh, okay,” Armie says, confused. Because he doesn’t really know what to say to that. Timmy’s mind seems to be jumbled and the conversations he’s holding are far from impressive. “Well, I’ll be back in a little bit. Is there anything you want specifically? I can get you a bagel or something.”

“I wanna come with you,” Timmy demands.

Armie instantly shakes his head. “No, you stay here. You’re in no condition to be out there right now. It’s freezing and you’re tired and just...no. No, you stay put,” he reasons.

“But--”

“Timmy,” Armie warns as he finally finishes putting on his shoes. “There’s no reason for you to come. I won’t be gone long.” 

With that he stands up from where he was crouched on the floor and reaches for his keys that are hanging on the hook. All of this goes on while Timmy stands only a few feet away completely silent.

“Okay, call me if you need--”

Armie stops in his tracks when he lifts his gaze to meet Timmy’s and sees that the boy’s eyes have completely welled with tears. Timmy looks up at him with a trembling lip and red nose as he tries to keep his composure. 

Armie is left wondering what he’s done wrong, then it hits him. Timmy gets extremely clingy and sensitive when he’s sick; he doesn’t want Armie to leave. He doesn’t want to be alone.

The look on the boy’s face, just on the brink of crumbling, makes Armie’s shoulders and face fall in sympathy.

Armie opens his arms with a sad smile for Timmy and says, pitifully, “Come here, baby.”

Without hesitation, the boy goes willingly, pressing his face into Armie’s large winter jacket. Timmy hiccups and gasps to keep from crying, and this only makes Armie hold his little cocoon closer, pushing his face into the heap of curls that smell like sweat and shampoo.

“I’ll be right back,” Armie offers as he sways the two of them back and forth. “I’m literally just going a couple blocks down the street to CVS.”

Timmy sniffles and wipes his nose on Armie’s coat. He nods reluctantly, but doesn’t pull away, not wanting to let Armie leave just yet.

Armie rubs a pattern of circles on Timmy’s back, letting him catch his breath for a few seconds. “Is there anything you want from the store?” he asks again, hoping to distract him, but also not let him forget that he does need to get going here soon.

Timmy shakes his head no.

Armie nods. “Okay, well then I better--,” he stops when Timmy whimpers as he tries to pull away. “What?” he questions.

“Gatorade?” Timmy asks quietly, as if he’s afraid to ask for something he wants. It’s adorable, and it makes Armie smile above him.

“You want Gatorade?” Armie confirms. Timmy nods against him. “Fruit punch?”

“Yeah,” Timmy croaks before having a coughing fit. Armie pats his back throughout it.

“Okay,” Armie says as he pats Timmy’s back, trying to pull away nonchalantly. “Okay, go lay down. I’ll be right back.”

Timmy nods and finally pulls away. He wipes his red rimmed eyes with the blanket. “Love you.”

Armie takes Timmy by the chin and kisses his chapped lips. Because he can’t help it. Because he can’t stop himself from showing Timmy how much he loves him at all times. “I love you, too.”

Timmy frowns when Armie pulls away. “I thought you said you didn’t want to get sick.”

“I was just messing with you, baby,” Armie chuckles as he nudges Timmy away. “Now, go rest.”

And with that, Armie is out the door, knowing Timmy will be dead to the world in a matter of seconds anyway.

\--

Later in the night, Armie figures he should try to get Timmy to eat something. The boy has been complaining all day about nausea and refused to consume much other than Gatorade and Wheat Thins. Armie allowed it at first, but now he feels like he should crack down a little. Timmy won’t get better by being dehydrated and having an empty stomach.

“Timmy, I’m making soup and grilled cheese for dinner,” Armie calls from the kitchen.

“No thanks,” Timmy says back from his spot on the couch. He sneezes three times, bless you, bless you, bless you, and then turns back to the TV.

“It wasn’t an offer,” Armie says as he pulls out pots and pans. “You have to eat some real food. At least eat the soup, Tim.”

“I won’t be able to eat it,” Timmy complains.

This time Armie ignores him and goes back to what he was doing in the kitchen. After a long week in the office, spending his Saturday taking care of a sickly Timmy who’s too stubborn for his own good was the last thing he needed. 

Timmy refuses Armie’s help or attention when it comes to his seizures sometimes, evidenced by the amount of times that he’s lied to Armie about how he feels. So it should be no surprise to Armie that he refuses help when he’s just under the weather.

It doesn’t take long for Armie to fix the food up. He made Timmy a small bowl of soup and half of a sandwich, hoping the smaller portion would make him more willing to at least try swallowing the food, but as soon as he brings it into the living room, Timmy starts protesting.

“Armie…” Timmy whines.

“You’re not gonna get any better if you don’t get something in your stomach,” Armie says as he joins Timmy on the couch. The younger slowly pushes himself into a sitting position and immediately puts his feet in Armie’s lap, still snuggled under the blanket. “And, no, Gatorade and crackers don’t count.”

“It’s the only thing that doesn’t make me nauseous,” Timmy pouts as he takes the bowl of soup from Armie’s hands.

Armie busies himself with feeling Timmy’s forehead. “Your fever isn’t getting any better,” he says before he notes the full glass of water on the coffee table in front of the couch. “I told you to drink that whole cup. You need water, Timmy. You don’t want to get dehydrated.”

“I just haven’t finished it yet,” Timmy excuses as he shakily brings a spoonful of chicken broth to his mouth.

They eat in silence for a few minutes, nothing between them but the clinking of their spoons against their bowls and the faint sound of the TV. Armie tries to bite his tongue when he realizes that Timmy is quite frankly refusing to touch his sandwich. It sits abandoned on the table as Timmy slurps away on his tiny bowl of soup.

After a few minutes, Timmy puts his bowl down on the table and mumbles, “I’m done.”

Armie glares at him because, fuck. He’s being so frustrating. All Armie wants it for him to get better, but Timmy doesn’t seem interested in wanting that for himself. It’s like he’s protesting Armie’s help just to prove a point, simply out of spite. God, what does he gain from being so difficult?

Armie sighs heavily as he looks into the bowl and finds that not only did Timmy only give his soup the time but day, but the only thing he consumed from it was the broth. All of the chicken, noodles, and vegetables stare back at him in the bottom of the bowl.

“Uh-uh, no,” Armie says as he picks the bowl up and pushes it back into Timmy’s hands. “You hardly ate a thing.”

“It’s all gone,” Timmy argues weakly as he refuses to take the bowl from Armie’s hands. He looks exhausted, just about ready to pass out, but Armie won’t let him. Because sleep isn’t the only thing that’s going to get him better. He needs to eat.

“You left everything in there, Timmy,” Armie says, slowly losing his temper. “This is not a debate. You need to at least eat all of your soup. You don’t have to eat the sandwich, but, please, for the love of god, just finish this bowl.”

Timmy whimpers and puts his hood up before crossing his arms over his tummy. “Armie, I can’t,” he whines.

“Timmy, now,” Armie demands as he pushes the bowl to Timmy’s chest. “I’m done playing these games.”

Timmy looks at the bowl and bites his lip. “Arms--”

“Now,” Armie says a little louder than he probably has to, but who can blame him? He’s pissed! He hates that Timmy has to defy him like a child. Why can’t he be an adult and realize that this hunger strike will get him nowhere? Why can’t he realize that Armie’s just trying to make it better?

Timmy instantly drops his gaze from Armie’s eyes and down at the bowl. He swallows harshly before looking down at the bowl in almost horror. Armie wants to roll his eyes.

The boy reluctantly takes the soup from Armie’s hands and begins spooning small heaps into his mouth. Every swallow seems painful to him, but Armie is just glad that he’s getting something in his system.

Not even a minute later, it happens.

Timmy urgently slams the bowl down on the coffee table and sits forward abruptly. Before Armie can get even angrier and ask him what the fuck he’s doing, Timmy smacks a hand over his mouth and starts gagging. Then, without warning, the boy finally pukes into his hand, nothing but red, mushy crackers and chicken broth coming up. The sick seeps through his fingers and falls onto the blanket, consistently getting worse as Timmy continues to heave.

“Fuck,” Armie says to himself as he sets his bowl on the table and begins aiding Timmy.

Armie pulls the blanket off of the boy in a panic as Timmy gags again and spills more vomit into his hand. He quickly helps Timmy stand and practically carries him into the kitchen so that the boy can lean over the sink.

Once over the sink, Timmy pulls his hand away to reveal the puke smeared all over his mouth and chin. He chokes a bit, causing a coughing fit and more gagging to occur, but at this point, there’s not much left in his stomach, so nothing comes up. He just heaves painfully over the garbage disposal as Armie rubs his back, feeling incredibly guilty.

“You’re alright,” Armie promises. He has to step around Timmy and wrap his arms around the boy’s waist, almost hugging him from behind to keep him upright. Armie can feel the way Timmy’s gut spasms, the way he jerks to bend over even more.

And, yes, at this point, Armie is feeling like the shittiest bastard ever. Because he didn’t listen to Timmy. Because he made him eat even when Timmy said he didn’t want to. Couldn’t, even. And now, Timmy is shaking helplessly over the sink as he empties basically nothing but stomach bile. He feels like an asshole, but all he wanted was for Timmy to start feeling better. And this has just made things worse.

“Catch your breath,” Armie says as he smooths a hand over Timmy’s back in large circles once the boy finally starts to slow down.

After a few more minutes free of gagging, Armie assumes Timmy’s done. Timmy pants against him, feeling weak in his arms from the toll it all took on him.

“You okay?” Armie bends over to ask in Timmy’s ear.

Timmy breathes deeply and nods, dazed. And then, as expected, a pathetic little, “Sorry.”

And Armie just wants to punch himself in the face.

“Don’t be sorry, baby,” Armie denies as he turns on the sink and starts washing off Timmy’s hand that’s covered in his own vomit. “It’s okay. You don’t feel good.”

“I shouldn’t have eaten it,” Timmy says, of course blaming himself. He brings a wet hand up to his mouth and begins washing the sick away from his face as well.

“Stop,” Armie says sternly. “I was the one who made you eat it. And I’m sorry for that.”

“You were just trying to help,” Timmy defends.

Armie sighs and turns the sink off. He dries Timmy’s hands and face with a cloth that hangs on the handle of the oven. He pulls Timmy into his arms before finally telling him, “Sometimes, no one is to blame.”

Timmy nods, agreeing.

And then Armie decides it’s time for bed.

\--

Timmy isn’t much better in the morning. In fact, Armie would go as far as to say that he’s much, much worse.

As soon as they wake up, Timmy complains about the sunlight hurting his head too much, so Armie closes the blinds and lets him sleep for a few more hours. But when it rolls around to 2 pm and Timmy has still yet to emerge from the bedroom to at least piss or get something to drink, Armie becomes worried.

Armie steps into the room and crouches beside Timmy’s sleeping form. He’s still wrapped in Armie’s sweats, almost his entire face tucked under the duvet. Yet despite this, he’s trembling like a leaf. Armie would be worried about how cold he is, but his sweaty, fevered forehead tells him it’s quite the opposite.

Timmy doesn’t stir when Armie touches his face. He lays eerily still, dead to the world around him.

Armie pats his cheek. “Hey,” he says gently, but he gets no response. He tries again, “Hey, Timmy. Come on, wake up.”

Timmy, yet again, doesn’t budge. He doesn’t even whimper, whine, order Armie away. Armie’s so freaked out he holds his hand up to Timmy’s open mouth just to make sure he’s breathing.

“Baby,” Armie persists as he runs his hands through Timmy’s curls. He shakes his head a little. “You need to open your eyes for me. Open your eyes, Tim. I’m getting worried.”

After a few more nudges, Timmy’s eyes weakly crack open, but he doesn’t move or say a word. He just moans from under the blanket, huffing a sigh and staring at Armie. The older can’t tell if Timmy’s mad or confused, but he’s undoubtedly troubled.

“Hey, you really need to drink something, okay?” Armie says. He hates voicing his concerns about Timmy’s hydration because it makes his thoughts all too real. And it makes him wonder if he should just go ahead and take Timmy to the hospital.

Timmy doesn’t answer. Just blinks and blinks and sneezes and blinks again.

“I’m gonna make you some tea, okay? I want you to drink it when I come back,” Armie emphasizes, truly not in the mood for Timmy to fight him on this again.

Timmy doesn’t respond, but what else is new? So Armie stands up from the floor and makes his way into the kitchen.

It’s right when Armie’s dipping the tea bag into the boiling water that he hears it. The yelp, the cry, the sure sign of what’s to come. Armie knows it all too well.

Timmy’s having a seizure.

Armie drops everything in the kitchen and bolts into the bedroom. He feels like his heart is in his throat because this is the last thing they need. This is the last thing Timmy should be doing when he’s as sick as he is. 

But unfortunately, Armie saw it coming. He’s too dehydrated, too sickly, too weak. God, why didn’t he do something sooner? But there's no time to dwell on what could have been. Timmy’s seizure is now and it’s present, and he needs to get into action.

When he steps into the room, he’s not prepared for the sight. Timmy’s convulsions have already begun, just as heinous and heart wrenching as always, but this time, their brutality has thrown the boy’s poor, defenseless body on the floor, leaving him face down against the hard surface. Armie almost immediately panics.

“Shit, shit, fuck!” Armie cries as he comes closer to the boy. 

He keeps his distance as he decides what’s best to do. Should he move him? No, he would most definitely hurt him. He’s too far into the seizure, and his spasms are much too strong for Armie to safely transport him. But will he suffocate? His face is in the floor. No, he won’t. He won’t suffocate, stop thinking like that. But what if he does? Fuck, what if?

“God, Timmy, you’re--” he’s cut off by a brash cry that’s ripped from Timmy’s throat. “You’re gonna be fine, baby. You know I won’t leave you.”

Though he’s seen this several times over, three years of seizures isn’t enough to prepare him for the wickedness Timmy’s epilepsy causes every time it decides to make an appearance. He flails like a fish, his arms trapped under him and clenching, his legs curling and kicking without rhythm. And the sounds, god the sounds he makes. His cries piercing as they echo off the hardwood floor, his gurgles and gasps and struggles for breath muffled by the surface. It’s like a scene out of a horror movie.

“You’re alright. You’re alright,” Armie whispers, trying to convince even himself.

Armie squats at a safe distance from the boy and tries to hold back his own tears. His own worries. What if Timmy…? Christ, he doesn’t want to think this, but what if Timmy...just…doesn’t come back from this? 

And, yes, he knows. He knows how unlikely it is for people to lose their life to a seizure, but it happens. Hell, he’s heard of people dying from their first seizure. Who’s to say that can’t happen to Timmy? When he’s so sick? When he’s so weak? 

Armie knew he should’ve done something sooner. Maybe if Armie had taken Timmy to a hospital last night after he couldn’t keep anything down, the boy wouldn’t be seizing on their bedroom floor from what is most likely dehydration and stress on the body.

For fuck’s sake, what has he done?

No, he stops himself. This is not the time to feel guilty for things he most likely couldn’t have foreseen or prevented. Timmy needs his help, and he won’t get it from Armie pitying himself.

Timmy cries out again, eyes fluttering, neck twitching, teeth most definitely biting tongue. Armie watches his lips closely, making sure they don’t turn a concerningly deep shape of blue.

“You’ve got it,” Armie promises. “You’re okay, honey.” 

And he mainly does this for himself. Because he’s not stupid. He knows Timmy can’t hear him. He knows the boy isn’t listening to or comprehending a word of what he’s saying. But he still needs to hear it. Because, despite the fact that Timmy is right there in front of him, he’s not. He’s not conscious, not present. So Armie is alone. And he has no one there to reassure him but himself.

“Come out of it,” Armie shakily whispers as he rapidly wipes away his tears. He glances at the clock before he mentions, “Three minutes already, baby. You’ve gotta start slowing down for me.”

And somehow, as if Timmy’s subconscious is watching over him and has decided that Armie’s experienced enough pain, the boy stops. It’s so abrupt that Armie’s stomach sinks. It’s like it’s all at once. But when he sees that Timmy is breathing heavily, he breathes a sigh of relief.

Armie instantly goes to turn the boy over so that he’s not face down on the floor anymore. Timmy is completely limp in his arms, and his eyes are distressingly closed. This sends Armie’s head into overdrive, because he can’t ever remember a time that Timmy wasn’t conscious following a seizure.

This is most definitely not normal.

“Timmy,” Armie calls as he pulls Timmy into his lap. He shakes him with more than a little force, smacks his cheeks to get his attention. “Honey, open your eyes.”

Surprisingly, Timmy just barely cracks his eyes open, his irises nothing but a small slit in his face, not even open enough for Timmy to focus on anyone or anything around him. This only relieves Armie for the briefest of seconds because almost immediately after, Timmy is closing his eyes again. And they’re back at square one, Timmy’s slack body not providing much release.

“Fuck, Timmy. What do I do?” Armie whispers to himself, on the verge of sobbing. He doesn’t say it loud enough for Timmy to hear, in fear that the boy might hear him.

Armie quickly snaps out of his traumatic state and comes to the conclusion that he needs to take Timmy to the emergency room and he needs to take him now.

When he looks down to see if Timmy hurt himself anywhere, he doesn’t see much other than the glaringly obvious dark patch on the front of Timmy’s pants, which are Armie’s pants. But he assumes that they’re going to the hospital anyway, and changing Timmy’s clothes just for them to be ripped off anyway would be a waste of time.

So, he gets a jacket for himself, covers Timmy in a blanket, and scoops the younger up before walking the two of them to their car in the parking garage. And then he’s off to the hospital, with a boy drifting in and out of consciousness and the bitter feeling of anxiety eating him away.

\--

They thankfully don’t make Armie leave Timmy when they get to the hospital.

By the time they got there, Timmy had become lucid enough to shuffle his way inside, with the help of Armie holding him up of course. He couldn’t answer any of Armie’s questions, doing nothing but groaning and whining. This continued when they went inside as well, so Armie did all the speaking.

The doctors must have recognized Armie’s panic because they immediately put Timmy into a wheelchair and told Armie to calm down and explain what happened, all while Armie was allowed to follow the boy down the hall to a room. He’s so thankful that they didn’t take Timmy out of his sight because that truly would have made matters worse, for himself and for Timmy.

Long story short, they give Timmy an IV and tell Armie that they’ll have to wait for him to wake up before they can determine how stable he is to go home, but with the flu being in his system, he likely won’t be leaving until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest.

So that’s how Armie ends up here, crammed in a rickety chair next to Timmy’s hospital bed, waiting for the boy to wake up. Timmy had been exhausted, his body severely spent, so he crashed as soon as the fluids met his system.

Just as Armie goes to text Saoirse and ask her to stop by the apartment and bring him his phone charger, he hears a hoarse voice call him from the bed.

“Armie?” Timmy croaks.

Armie looks up to meet the boy’s eye and is relieved by how much better he looks already. He doesn’t look anywhere near rejuvenated, but he looks much better than the sorry condition he was in this morning, and that’s all that matters.

“Hey, angel,” Armie whispers as he scoots closer. Timmy wants to hold Armie’s hand, so he lets him.

Timmy looks around the room and frowns, clearly confused. He presses Armie’s knuckles to his dry lips, mumbling against his skin, “What’s wrong?”

Armie smiles sadly. It’s endearing. Timmy doesn’t exactly know what’s happened, but he knows by the layout of the room around him that it’s nothing good.

“You’re in the hospital. You got really sick, remember?” Armie offers as he uses his free hand to rub Timmy’s thigh.

Timmy shakes his head no.

Armie tries to explain it slowly, not wanting to alarm Timmy into thinking that he’s in any kind of danger. “Well, this morning, I could hardly wake you up. Do you remember waking up?”

“Ummm.” Timmy pouts as he thinks about this one for a second. “Don’t think so.”

“I let you sleep for a little bit and then I couldn’t get you to respond to me,” Armie explains, not missing the bewildered look on Timmy’s face. The boy seems to be trying to take in all this information and make sense of it. He can’t believe that all of this happened to him and he can’t remember it. “And then later you had a seizure because you couldn’t keep anything down. You were dehydrated.”

Timmy of course gets caught up on only one aspect of all of that. “Seizure?”

“Mhm,” Armie confirms, but he quickly changes the subject as soon as he sees the tears gathering in Timmy’s eyes. Big, fat, unrelenting tears. “How do you feel now, though?”

Timmy sniffles and presses Armie’s hand to his trembling lip and questions, “Huh?” His mind is still a bit cloudy.

“How do you feel now?” Armie repeats patiently. He’s always patient with Timmy.

“Um,” Timmy hums wobbly, trying to keep his composure. Armie knows, he knows Timmy hates when he hates seizures. He hates when his epilepsy gets in his way. And no matter how many times it does, it always makes him emotional. “Okay, I guess,” he finally mutters.

“Well that’s good,” Armie praises as he leans in to kiss Timmy’s temple. It’s the first time in three days that it hasn’t felt scorching to the touch. “I’m happy you’re feeling better.”

Timmy then says something that Armie doesn’t understand.

“Huh?” Armie asks.

Timmy mumbles it again. It still doesn’t click.

“Say it one more time, baby,” Armie says, leaning in further.

“Painting,” Timmy finally enunciates enough for Armie to catch.

And Armie’s heart sinks. Because he’s completely forgotten about Timmy’s painting. It was the first piece of art that Timmy has been commissioned in a while. Business has been slow for the boy in recent months, and this has effectively put him down and caused him to question his talent. 

And no matter how many times Armie promised him that his art is amazing, it is beautiful, it is impressive, Timmy didn’t believe him. Not until he finally got a commission. And now, with all of this going on, it’s unlikely that he’ll finish b the time it needs to be sent, and that hurts so fucking much.

So Armie bites his lips, giving the boy a sympathetic look, and shakes his head. “You haven’t finished it yet.”

And Timmy’s face just crumbles. God, he’s been working on this for weeks, weeks! And now he’ll have to disappoint his customer by telling them, “Hey, I won’t be able to get this to you on time, despite the fact that you commissioned it months in advance. Sorry, I guess?” 

Armie hurts for Timmy, and he can fucking feel the dismay of it all when he watches Timmy bring his hands to his face and cry behind them.

“Oh, Timmy.”

But Timmy doesn’t listen. He just shakes and hiccups as he tries to stop himself from weeping uncontrollably, but he can’t. Because he’s tired, he’s exhausted, and now even his hobbies aren’t safe from his epilepsy.

“No, Armie…” Timmy sobs.

And Armie can’t take it anymore. So he pulls Timmy’s head against his chest and hushes him. A hand down his spine, fingers in his curls.

“It’s okay, honey,” Armie promises. “You’ll just have to tell them it’ll be a few days late because there was an emergency. You were sick, I’m sure they’d understand.”

“It’s embarrassing,” Timmy hiccups, “for business.”

Armie sways from side to side, tries to chuckle to lighten the mood. “I’m sure they’re not going to leave a bad review or put you out of business because their painting got there a few days late.”

“Still,” Timmy sniffles, getting a hold of himself more now. “I’ve been workin' on it so long just for it to not get there on time. It jus’ sucks ya know.”

“I know,” Armie says in an understanding tone. Because he does understand. He’s seen Timmy working on this since day one. “But it’ll be okay. I promise.”

A moment of silence, and then, the depreciation.

“If I was good enough at art, I would’ve had this done weeks ago.”

“Timmy…”

“I even disappoint my customers.”

That’s where Armie has had enough.

“Hey,” Armie says as he pulls Timmy back to look him in the eyes. He’s happy to see that he looks much livelier now, but hates that his face has fallen with insecurity. “You don’t disappoint anyone. You never have and you never will.”

“Well--”

“No, no, no,” Armie cuts him off. “You don’t get to argue this. You’re not a disappointment, okay? That’s just not the case at all.”

Armie waits patiently for Timmy to nod. It takes a while, but he soon does.

Timmy then wraps his arms around Armie’s shoulders and pushes his face into Armie’s neck, kissing his throat, breathing him in. “I love you so fucking much, Hammer,” he whispers, as if he knows his voice will betray him if he tries to speak. “I don’t know what I’d ever do without you.”

“Probably a hell of a lot more than you do now,” Armie jokes with a grin as he pokes Timmy’s sides. “You’re lazy as fuck.”

Timmy giggles a bit before biting Armie’s earlobe. "Say you love me back," Timmy demands.

"Alright! Alright, I love you too," Armie laughs back.

**Author's Note:**

> sorry for being gone so long :( i hope you guys liked this!
> 
> let me know what you think. your kudos and comments help me more than you'll EVER know  
> <33
> 
> i'm sweettimotea on tumblr if you wanna send asks or chat! i promise i don't bite :)


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